Archive for the ‘Sad’ Category

Love Me Syndrome

Another tempestuous night in Town Park, melancholy

Wild Thoughts, seeks harbor from the fell dampness.

Across an old Maple, restroom facilities, in a stall,

His Swiss Knife carves, help!- a grounded cardinal,

Over faded, besought scratches, then his number.


The windows behold an ashen canvas, dashing away

A lustrous moon, sour lampposts, the path back & ahead,

But in buckets of rain, runs a scarlet damsel his way.

Wild Thoughts escapes on some path, Love Me Syndrome

Skips past roley- poley earthworms stuck in puddles.


The gales deepen in fury. By the Maple, a scarlet,

Melancholy soul runs to the restroom, closes the stall.

She sees unspeakable markings, one freshly concerning.

A knife on the basin, she dials the splintered number,

My name is Lonesome Dove, I’ve waited a long time for you.


A calm develops, drenched footsteps echo anticipations.

The beautiful ones, raised to know what comes & goes,

But not what stays- saturated under fluorescent sight,

They sparkle. Lonesome Dove eases five minutes in.

Your real name isn’t Wild Thoughts. Care to know mine?


From outside, a whip of lightning licks the Maple,

Crackling, thickly green branches smoke up, catch fire.

They ponder a tragic moment. Is it you? He knows, It’s

Me. Tragedy. She flies, red tail vanishing in the rain.


That night, a tornado brewed, ravaging Town Park.

Love Me Syndrome claimed one, but not the other.


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A friend that is closer than family left today.

He’s driving off to the west to do what I wanted,

But money and a little reality slowed me down.

It is a sad time, and we are all affected by it.

We all show it in our own way, sitting around the table, playing with cellphones,

To keep our minds occupied.

-The one leaving talks too much, leaving all he knows, here, for a new future.

-The other who stays pushes the thought away he will be back and laughs.

-I can’t say a goddamn word or think up much about anything.

For the past three years, and before, in high school for more,

No friend ever stuck by me through the happiest moments

And the hellish ones like him.

I’ve saved his life, we went across America,

We are the world’s best hackey sack players, And yet,

We could talk night thru about Carl Sagan or plans for zombie invasions.

Talk the inner theories of music, or play.

And now we’re all grown up.

We’re 23 and a wedge has split our friendship apart.

When the door shuts behind him, all the memories come back.

Along with every friend I’ve lost in the past,

But this one is the hardest to cope with.

I find it hardest to say goodbye.

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The Blues


College was fun,

Dropping out over was even more.

Freeing oneself from routine felt the greatest,

And then the idea lost its allure and turned into

The Blues.


Looking around and seeing no one was the hint.

Looking up and seeing friends

Flying away to the clouds, the realizing slap,

Submersed in the daily work week hardened reality,

Time always tired and routine fed the embers of

The Blues.


Growing older, the bones cracked and popped,

Teeth dropped out, cheeks aged to knotty wood,

The child inside died

A leather man of cancerous things,

And then you could blame it on

The Blues.


You did not understand that person,

Until that day that defines us,

When sadness, distance, and grievance,

Taught you how to play

The Blues.

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The average writer envisions his life,

By now, would simply be,

Some sort of sweet, honey- like paradise,

Dripping of nothing but the very-sticky-best.


The average writer lies flat-chested

Atop a frozen, silver pond,

Encapsulated by snowcapped, skyscraping evergreen,

Waiting to be embraced in the woolen hands

From someone who understands.


A year’s grace of life,

Perhaps, reveals a shortcut to a dream

That most live out their time,

And never achieve.



At a coffee shop, traditionally

Drinking another cup o’ joe

With under the couch change,

The average writer thinks his writing

Would have, should have-

By now unfolded itself unto the public,

Like the newspapers that stained readers’ fingertips.


The average writer’s needs,
Word Trains from formed ideas,

Enough inky coal to leap off

Tracks of pages,

To chug up curious sleeves,

Of the average writer

Into their tunneling eyes,

To drop off a bomb of completion.


Oxen-like vigor and pristine diplomacy

Wilted as a dying orchid.


And all of this happens

When you get what you paid for;

Only, the average writer, like most of poor potential,

Could not afford any better than a cup o’ joe.

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Wintertime Shock

We trek to the post office through A bombs of snow squalls.

Our cold, watery lives perch atop my mother’s head,

Melting through copper hair, thick skull, and tissue,

To deliver the brain freeze.



Mother will tear your heart out like a blade of grass,

In the hands of some summer girl dancing in the fields;

An ensemble of war trumpets flapping out of key behind the clouds.

There is blood on her hands.


I don’t have much to say about my-small-self, except

My name is Jasper.


Shreds of soaked and scattering newspaper

Toss against fences that follow the sidewalk,

Like rustled feathers in a chicken coop.

Our right bears the abandoned county jail,

Cement walls sky high.


But today, between the iron bar gates

And beyond them iron bar doors,

And within those iron bar windows,

A fiery light burns within.

Mad- minded Mother hurries past without noticing.


The snow is rising past my knees.

A plow truck bursts through the veil of snow with a thunderous grumble,

Scraping against pavement.

I clench mother’s hand in mine, but am lost

In a moment of awe-

A blinking shark of the great white sno’cean,

Stuffing its steel jaws with frigid, frosty flesh.

Leaving its trail through salt chunks & sand.

It passes, or we pass it,

The lights slowly fade to white.

And the grumble quiets.

My hustle is reduced to a waddle.


Mother grabs my hand, and forces my small legs to churn faster.

Ahead, an undisturbed mass of sparkling snow,

Frosting on the birthday cake,

We clip and drag a thin layer off the top with each step;

And I want to turn around so badly.


I watch Mother’s jeans with cautious eyes as globs of slush squirt from the tips of my boots,

surely, soaking those pants through.

But she does not know

Or doesn’t care.


My arm aches from the tugging game between mother and I.

The post office is close enough,

But I am an anchor on this speedboat.

Pickup is a necessity.


But, then our hands rip apart,

I lose my reigns.

Skidding boots and snow impacted gloves, I spinout in the snow,

While Mother’s shape tapers into that white curtain.


I spit out a shark’s amount of snow,

Dribbling its way down my chin and slipping into my jacket.


I am young and it sears my skin and I cry.

The anchor is snagged and lost its chain

The sharks are going to eat me-


But these rare times, when The Worst has won,

Even It has its limits.

A great arm clasps around my body and lifts me  to the clouds and grey skies.

Fore’ it is mother! I flip up like a caught fish,

Land on two boots and slap myself snow free-

“Come on you little brat!” She sneers.


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Thinking About Passing By

Within the dripping paunch of darkness,

There are no boundaries to retain.

What I see,

Is only what I see.

-There are voices that drift through the black you aren’t allowed to distinguish. A car door shuts. You hear the clicking of heels upon blacktop.

Would the pavement shred the skin of my knees,

If I dropped from the sky,

And rose to your waist?

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The Sound You Cannot Hear, But I Drown In It.


There is a subtle sound to silence,

Persistant like a ringing telephone.

Pick up.


Apartment windows glow in the night.

Motorcycles rev like chainsaws at the corner of Forest and Park Ave.

Under the linens of my bed,

My cabeza hums like the rusted wheels of a chugging locomotive.

Chugging, until I derail it.


All I need are the cement blocks.


In my sleep, the humming becomes more passive,

And it allows me to dream.

To recapture that silver gooeyness,

Smothered between my dry lips,

Caked where my hands wrapped around your hips.

So long ago.


When i wake up the hum returns,

As if a thousand flies crept into my sleeping ear,

Their wings battering against the edges of my skull,

Festering, breeding, dying.

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